There is an age beyond which, and I am sure this must be the same for everyone and not just me, a person should not bounce up and down whilst listening to music.  Given the state of my right buttock, I take this age to be 37.  As I pointed out to my friend the drummer, his band ought to have insurance for such injuries - and if not, one of the band needs to be prepared to massage me better after gigs.  There was no response.
Saturday, needless to say, was a good night.  The Brummie Sculptor and I had the most wonderful evening, which started with us pretending to be 16 again, dying our hair and drinking wine in my bedroom*.  After spending much time preparing ourselves, we drank more wine before inflicting our hilarious-selves (we were that deluded at this point) on various friends in the local.  At 10.40, The Smiffs came on and I started dancing.  An hour and ten minutes later they finished their set.  I had not danced to 2 of the 16 song set-list (namely “The Queen is Dead” (I was at the bar) and “Asleep” (not really a dancing track))**.  I was knackered and looked like I had been dragged through a hedge backwards during a monsoon.

Downstairs the look wasn’t so bad.  It was dark, dingy and I wasn’t alone.  Upstairs, the look caused much hilarity amongst friends now too sensible (boring) to partake in loud music and dancing.  These are the friends who enjoy a nice meal out and a couple of glasses of wine (for the ladies) whilst discussing the latest burp or fart of their dearest darling child.  I find these nights wonderful (in theory) but inevitably rather boring (unless I’m allowed to talk to the boys about football, the credit crunch, international terrorism or even the price of butter).

I had mentioned the gig to my crush - not in an overly obvious way - but he didn’t show.  I hadn’t asked him to attend, just pointed out that it would be a good night.  Given my attractive look at the end, I’m rather glad he wasn’t there.  At least I don’t have to find somewhere else to take my work!

They’re going to play again in December, The Smiffs.  Given they sold out on Saturday night - and they were turning people away from the door - it’ll be a case of getting tickets early.  I can’t wait.
* Of course, when we were 16 we wouldn’t have been drinking a rather nice Sauvignon Blanc, but rather the cheapest cider/alcoholic substance we could have laid our hands upon.  Earlier in my drinking career, this would have included sherry, but I’m sure I was beyond that period at this point.

** It is entirely possible that the band didn’t even play these songs and I just imagined them both.  However, I’m fairly sure I am correct.

“It has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.”
Rose Kennedy

OK then, time to dish the dirt, I suppose.  After all, that’s what people want really.  They aren’t after the meaningless day to day diatribe.  Oh, well, yes, of course they are - they’re reading the blog of someone who they’ve never met.  What they really want, I suppose, is to feel either superior in the knowledge that their life is better than the one they are reading about or, possibly, that they aren’t as weird as all that for watching crap TV late into the night and then slinking off to bed alone to be comforted by the latest Iain Banks, or similar.

So, the dirt.  Well, it’s not really dirt.  More something I’ve had a hard time admitting to myself.  You see, I’ve got a crush.  Well, being completely honest, I’ve got two - but back to that later.  I know my crushes name and occupation, but very little else - other than he drives a very old convertible BMW and has a fondness for The Jam.  I’ve met him perhaps a dozen times over the last year - always as a client to the business he runs.  And, I’m fascinated.

From bitter experience I know how this goes.  He’ll be gay or in some long-term relationship with a stunning girl who has legs up to her arm-pits and never goes out of the house if her hair isn’t just so.  Not that he’s like that.  No, he’s just on the right side of geeky arty for my taste.  His haircut is somewhere out of a Mod movie and I’ve even seen the odd Fred Perry shirt about his person.  And he wears old shoes - well trainers/Converse-types.  They always look like he’s had them a thousand years, which just makes him even more endearing.

He works in the Gene Puddle but lives somewhere in the City.  If I’m really lucky, I’ll pass him twice a day as we drive back and for - in the opposite directions - to our work. He can smoke when he drives - something I’ve never managed to do - and, like me, he sings along to whatever he’s listening to on the radio.  Either that or he has some hands free mobile thing going on.  Or, possibly, he’s a psychopath who plots his next great crime in his car (although, we’ve all talked to ourselves in our cars, haven’t we?  Just me then?).

We’ve had some great conversations when I’ve gone into pick things up from him.  He’s smart and funny and makes me laugh - although I’m consciously trying not to show any signs in front of him that there is the potential I may just launch myself at his ankles and beg him to take me to bed at any moment.  I’ve tried the leading questions about what he’s doing that night/that weekend, to try and eek out information about him, but without any success.  I know he goes to Metro’s sometimes - but not enough to make it worthwhile going in there and hanging out on the off-chance.  I also know that he’s got lots of friends who don’t live locally - as he’s told me about weekends away - either planned or taken - to visit them.

Most importantly, he smells like no-one else I’ve ever met - but like everyone who I’ve ever known.  He smells of cigarettes and wood.  Wood is very important in the business he’s in.  I come from a family who run a building firm.  I was brought up around wood shavings and cigarette smoke as the carpenters went about their business.  Perhaps this is about the comfort of childhood, but the way he smells makes me feel completely safe and at ease.  No pretence.  No poncy aftershave/deoderant chemical smells.  Just hard work, wood and tobacco.
So, what to do next about the Crush.  That’s the thing.  Where do you go next?  I’ve never been very good at this bit - and to say I’m rusty is probably the understatement of the year.  I took a colleague to pick some stuff up one day - just so that she could use her GayDar on him.  She thought he was straight - probably.  So, no fucking use at all.  And, why would he be the slightest bit interested.  He’s at least my age and if he hasn’t got a significant other, there’s probably a reason that he’s quite happy with right now.  And, before you ask, I don’t think he’d be a one-night stand.  After all, this image I have of him in my head has taken a year to build up.  One night is hardly likely to shatter it significantly enough for me to write him off as a bad deal.

So, the Crush will go on.  If nothing else, it keeps me awake when I’m driving.  His name is Chris by the way.

Oh, and the other one.  That’s even harder to admit and even less likely to be resolved.  It’s been going on way too long.  I pull away every now and again.  Then I see him.  My head spins and my stomach lurches.  It’s been like that for over twenty-years.  It’s going nowhere and one day I’ll admit that to myself.  Just not today….

This is my truth, tell me yours…

1.  Grounds for Divorce - You bet.  There were six - but I could have gone on.  Regardless, it’s filed.

2.  Different Class - William started in Reception.  There were more mother’s crying than children.  I was not one of them.

3.  Sleep Alone - Most nights (unless a small child appears, as if by magic, and I spend the rest of the time clinging onto the edge of a double bed).  However, this would be better news if I had balls.

3.  2+2=5 - I’ve started a short course with the Open University to “aid my continuing professional development..” in order that work paid the registration.  All bollocks, of course, but it makes my CV look better, just in case the credit crunch comes to Cardiff.

4.  Don’t Look Back in Anger - It’s unseemly.  Smile sweetly, pretend everything will be just fine.  People like it better that way.

5.  Perfect - It rarely is, even if that’s how it is projected.

6.  Crushed By The Wheels of Industry - Work. Is. Still. Manic.  Even in August, which used to be - whether in the office or out - a month to catch up, have long lunches and plan the campaign for the Autumn.  This year, no let up.

7.  30 Something - Yes, another birthday came and went.  Less alcohol than in previous years - but I’ve made up for that in the last week, which has been ugly, ugly…

8.  House of Cards - I have a Freecell addiction.

9.  Just The Way I’m Feeling - Up and Down.

10. Wow - Usain Bolt, Michael Phelps, Rebecca Adlington, Tim Brabants, I could go on.  Not forgetting, of course, the local heroes - Nicole Cooke and David Davies.

11. Born A Girl - Which doesn’t in any way mean I can’t like football.  Go on Liverpool!

12. Get A Life - Yes, I will when I get five minutes.  Until then, same shit, different day..

13. Mothers Talk - And so do women in general.  When will men understand that?  We don’t go to the toilet in pairs for nothing, you know.

14. Young at Heart - So I’m going to watch The Smiffs (did you get what they did there?) a week Saturday at a local pub.  Same night as The Other Smiths, but less entrance and taxi fare.  They best be as good as he reckons they are!

15. Weather With You - Because it was shit here.

Oh, and I’ve been cataloguing a whole bunch of tracks that have been donated.  Seems to have gone to my brain, somewhat…